


hearth

by belforma



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belforma/pseuds/belforma
Summary: Set (briefly) post-Blue Lions.  Byleth is doing his best.  Seteth is helping.





	hearth

**Author's Note:**

> i confess i didn't want to deal with the calendar so i didn't fact check the timeline but hopefully it's clear enough what the intent was! byleth becoming archbishop is a lot less weird to me than his alternatives, but seteth and rhea keeping the truth from him even after his unification with sothis (and ascension to archbishop) is also pretty weird so assume he's been at least partially filled in.

Rhea steps down peacefully, Byleth steps up as archbishop, and Seteth makes good on his promise.

The sun shines on a new age of Fódlan, rising rays threatening to encroach on the dark of Byleth’s quarters. The curtains are abruptly pulled back, granting the sun purchase, and Byleth squeezes his eyes shut in protest. A few more minutes. Maybe a few more years.

It’s not like he asked for this.

The culprit—the curtain-puller—returns to the side of the bed. For a moment, the room is still again. Seteth is, probably, considering what capacity he addresses Byleth in at present: his weary fiancé, or oversleeping archbishop.

He settles on the answer, takes a seat on the edge of the bed, runs a hand through the bangs strewn over Byleth’s forehead. Byleth is doing his best sleeping impression—which, to his credit, is very good—but Seteth’s gentle hand is a more pleasant wake-up call than the morning sun, and he opens his eyes with some reluctance when he hears his name called, soft but stern.

It is past time for him to wake and address the new day. The sun is already high in the sky. There are countless meetings to be had: with Faerghus, the faithful, the knights, the displaced and downtrodden after a long, long war. The paperwork on the desk of the archbishop makes him miss grading tests.

Of course Byleth is frowning.

“The people need you,” Seteth murmurs. He is not unsympathetic; he wears a small smile of encouragement and leans down to kiss Byleth’s forehead, feather light, where he’s pushed the strands out of the way.

It doesn’t serve to motivate him, so Byleth fixes his gaze across the room like a child, lips pursed. Seteth sighs and lowers his head. “Spare me from doing something so unseemly as dragging the archbishop out of bed. You know as well as I this is not a duty you may shirk, no matter how appealing it may be.”

Still soft, but the sternness edges in. He’s right, of course. Byleth knows he’s right, and Seteth knows Byleth knows he’s right, so he offers his weary fiancé a small caress of the cheek and stands. Byleth watches him go—towards the dresser, where he arranges Byleth’s wardrobe for the day, because Byleth will not even get out of bed himself.

For a while, Byleth sits and watches Seteth sort and deliberate. It soothes him the same way eating a meal together does, or going fishing.

It is, he supposes, domestic. The closest feeling is, maybe, Jeralt making a fire after a long day on the road, or taking him to a favored tavern for a meal, but it’s different, too; Jeralt was his father, and they were surviving.

Surviving was, in retrospect, really easy.

Seteth presents a stack of neatly folded clothes. “I trust you can dress yourself, Archbishop?”

Outside of this room, they are the archbishop and his advisor. Nothing more, and nothing less. it is normal—expected, really—for Seteth to take on a tone of professionalism in preparation for their time in the public eye.

Byleth still frowns, mouth dry, when he accepts the clothes. He’s had better mornings than dwelling on the past.

(It was five years ago—but those five years passed in a single night for him, didn’t they?)

Seteth frowns, too, but ultimately gives him space. “I’ll fetch the traditional garments for you.”

They pause. Byleth opens his mouth like he wants to say something, and then nods in resignation, and Seteth nods in his own hesitant way. They part ways again, Byleth undressing and redressing, and Seteth peering at him from the corner of his eye while he finds the various ornamentation of the church.

Seteth stalls over the headpiece, runs his fingers over the finely-plated crest. He returns to a Byleth in the middle of buttoning his tunic with empty hands.

“Will you speak to me, my love?” He asks, fingers moving to take over the buttoning. Byleth lets him.

He wants to speak, but he can’t find the words. His mind wanders when he looks; five years ago, when the continent was largely at peace, and then seven, when his only concept of home was Jeralt, and then five again, learning how bitter tears tasted for the first time in his life. A time when his only responsibility was swinging a sword, and then one when it was teaching others how to swing one.

He remembers a blank confusion at how he seemed to unnerve others, and then a panicked one at how he started to unnerve himself. He learned so much while teaching: how Dedue liked to garden, and Annette loved Mercedes’ baking, and Ashe read every adventure he could get his hands on. For the first time, he learned fear on the battlefield, but it wasn’t for himself.

(In retrospect, it was stupid: did he just think Jeralt was immortal?)

And Seteth—Seteth’s brow furrows as he smoothes over Byleth’s shirt, kisses his temple. “Please. I will ease your burdens however I can, but I can hardly aid you without knowing what troubles you.”

“Seteth,” Byleth says, taking Seteth’s hands in his own. He is  _ trying _ , and Seteth is patient.

He used to be so guarded. Byleth reaches out to cup his face, and Seteth’s hand follows his, squeezes in reassurance.

Jeralt was long dead by the time Byleth wanted to ask how he was supposed to know who he wanted to spend his life with. He struggled and fumbled; he would lie awake, or get distracted between bites. Seteth welcomed him into his life, slowly and cautiously—warmly, eating dinner with Flayn, watching him dote over her with so much love it was a mystery how anyone couldn’t realize they were father and daughter.

‘Like family,’ they said, and Byleth had no family anymore, so he puzzled over it.

“I don’t think I’m suited to this role.”

Seteth almost laughs. “You are the one most suited to this role, Byleth. Rhea entrusted it to you herself.”

Byleth almost laughs, too, but he hasn’t quite mastered the nuances of sardonicism. Instead, his brow knits, fingers curling against Seteth’s cheek. “I’m not Sothis. I don’t know anything about this religion.”

Something flickers in Seteth’s eyes—sadness, if Byleth had to guess, though for what, he isn’t sure. Seteth turns his head just so, presses his lips to Byleth’s palm.

“The progenitor god is dead,” he says, barely more than a whisper. Neither of them like to talk about the past. “But,” he continues, brushing his fingertips against Byleth’s chest, “you have most certainly received her blessing.”

Maybe. It’s not like he could ask her anymore. (That makes two.)

It is a hard statement to argue back from without getting into details he’s not entirely comfortable divulging, so he relents, leans into Seteth’s chest and rests his head against his shoulder. “Just … support me.”

At this angle, Seteth blocks out so many of those harsh rays.

He embraces Byleth, a strong arm around his waist and a hand in his hair. He smells, faintly, like the ocean; somehow, he always does, no matter how long he’s been landlocked. “Now and forever, my love.”

Seteth moves to kiss his head, but Byleth lifts his head, stands on his tiptoes, gingerly meets his lips instead. It makes him smile. It makes them both smile. Their foreheads rest against each other afterward, and the room is once again very still, if only briefly.

“With due diligence, perhaps even the archbishop will be permitted some time off.” There’s a little light in Seteth’s eyes, a sparkle of mischief, or passion, or both. “Somewhere far out of the public eye, where he might enjoy the company of his loved ones in peace.”

Byleth’s smile widens, nearer to a grin, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> byleth is pretty hard for me to wrap my head around and seteth has a lot of complex stuff going on so i kind of just threw stuff at the wall and hoped it stuck. but mostly i wanted them to kiss. thank you for reading!


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